O for a voice like thunder, and a tongue
To drown the throat of war! - When the senses
Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness
Who can stand" When the souls of the oppressed
Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand" When the whirlwind of fury comes from the Throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance Drive the nations together, who can stand"
When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle, And sails rejoicing in the flood of Death; When souls are torn to everlasting fire, And fiends of Hell rejoice upon the stain.
O who can stand" O who hath caused this" O who can answer at the throne of God" The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it! Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it! —William Blake
A blackness had come over the sun. The air pulsed with death, shit and blood and piss and tears already spent, never to be again. Beneath her feet the ground had been torn asunder by hooves as well as men's feet, turned filth. Feathers of deepest night fell from the clouds of ravens that sounded akin to distant thunder above her—flapping their wings, screaming over bits of flesh or eyes that had not been freshly plucked. The day was grey but the blood spilled was as red, red, red as the tips of her fingers. As her slack mouth. As her feet, gored to the knees in her stepping over the bodies of the armies. The wind carried nothing but the smell of a thousand graves. The hills, dotted with so many dead for a moment looked as if they were blooming steel.
A severed arm, meat already turning grey tripped her up and she went down. Her hand landed in the ruins of a man's face laid bare as well as crushed by a mace. She heard the sound of it as fingers spread to stop her fall clicked against shattered bone. Beside him, a boy, perhaps not more than fifteen summers stared up at the sky with glassy, forever unseeing eyes. The boy was cut clean in two. She could not see his other half anywhere.
She wanted to scream. To weep. To cry. To mourn. Anything, to...to feel anything. But she had been scraped empty, torn inside. All that answered her now was silence. Silence and the shrieks of ravens devouring bits and pieces of men. She scrambled to her feet not looking at the globules stuck to her fingers. If she did not look at it, it was not there. But how...how...how...how could she not look all around her" How could she not see" Where is the Zara'karr, desperately thought. She must find him. She must find him....surely the gods would not forsaken her entirely' Surely, he must be here somewhere.
Her pace quickened. Over broken sword or body alike she scrabbled like a bone-picker might when rifling through the pockets of those who no longer needed them. There were no bone-pickers anymore, of course. They too, were all dead.
She must find the Zara'karr. She must find where he lay. If she could, then she could fix this. Fix all of it.
Above her, the ravens only screamed louder.
Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand" When the whirlwind of fury comes from the Throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance Drive the nations together, who can stand"
When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle, And sails rejoicing in the flood of Death; When souls are torn to everlasting fire, And fiends of Hell rejoice upon the stain.
O who can stand" O who hath caused this" O who can answer at the throne of God" The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it! Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it! —William Blake
A blackness had come over the sun. The air pulsed with death, shit and blood and piss and tears already spent, never to be again. Beneath her feet the ground had been torn asunder by hooves as well as men's feet, turned filth. Feathers of deepest night fell from the clouds of ravens that sounded akin to distant thunder above her—flapping their wings, screaming over bits of flesh or eyes that had not been freshly plucked. The day was grey but the blood spilled was as red, red, red as the tips of her fingers. As her slack mouth. As her feet, gored to the knees in her stepping over the bodies of the armies. The wind carried nothing but the smell of a thousand graves. The hills, dotted with so many dead for a moment looked as if they were blooming steel.
A severed arm, meat already turning grey tripped her up and she went down. Her hand landed in the ruins of a man's face laid bare as well as crushed by a mace. She heard the sound of it as fingers spread to stop her fall clicked against shattered bone. Beside him, a boy, perhaps not more than fifteen summers stared up at the sky with glassy, forever unseeing eyes. The boy was cut clean in two. She could not see his other half anywhere.
She wanted to scream. To weep. To cry. To mourn. Anything, to...to feel anything. But she had been scraped empty, torn inside. All that answered her now was silence. Silence and the shrieks of ravens devouring bits and pieces of men. She scrambled to her feet not looking at the globules stuck to her fingers. If she did not look at it, it was not there. But how...how...how...how could she not look all around her" How could she not see" Where is the Zara'karr, desperately thought. She must find him. She must find him....surely the gods would not forsaken her entirely' Surely, he must be here somewhere.
Her pace quickened. Over broken sword or body alike she scrabbled like a bone-picker might when rifling through the pockets of those who no longer needed them. There were no bone-pickers anymore, of course. They too, were all dead.
She must find the Zara'karr. She must find where he lay. If she could, then she could fix this. Fix all of it.
Above her, the ravens only screamed louder.